


Calamities of online-shopping

by finlyfoe



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fun, Party, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:52:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Party night.<br/>Quinn has done online-shopping, but something must have gone terribly wrong....</p><p>Fun, fluff, silly. Also to prove I don't ALWAYS drown them in darkness...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calamities of online-shopping

**Author's Note:**

> In case anybody wondered what ever happened to Virgil….
> 
> Prompt fill for t_zefirs LJ prompt (#14): Something happened to Quinn and he is wearing this shirt with pink roses (or peonies?) instead of his usual navy blue. You have to explain his strange choice of outfit, and the shirt must be taken off and/or destroyed by the end of the fic. 
> 
> Based on true and shocking events, evidence to be seen here: https://rupertfriendfan.com/2016/06/10/new-rupert-friend-at-the-palma-ny-screening/  
> or here: http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/125318.html

On  Saturday at 6 pm Quinn decides to call it quits and have a life for a change. Get ready for the big event.  He stretches his back, leaves his desk and takes a paper-wrapped parcel out of the closet.

Three past six, his computer still shutting down, Carrie stomps in: “Quinn, new intel is in on possible sightings of the Mossul seven”, and she spreads drone-photos all over his desk.

Inwardly rolling his eyes he gives her an unconcerned: “Has to wait till Monday.”

“Quinn, don’t be ridiculous, Monday these are old hats…”

He sighs. “Tomorrow then… We have an appointment tonight, remember.”

She gives him her I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about-stare.

He rolls his eyes. Visible this time. “Virgil?”

“So? Party starts at 8, gives us plenty of time. No use showing up before ten. First two hours of parties are always lame.”

Virgil’s good-bye party. He fell in love with Agneta, a hot blonde from Sweden, next thing they hear is a shotgun wedding and this party tonight, tomorrow he’ll be off to some Swedish village 60 km south of the Arctic circle. Quinn wonders what Virgil might be surveilling there - polar bears? elks? IKEA? - none of his business anyway.

 “Carrie, I want to have a shower, get changed, shave…”

“Shower here. Shave - since when? And what, you want to change from boring blue button-down into boring blue button-down?… ”

“It’s not as if I only own blue button-downs…”

She sneers.

“…and since when do you take an interest in my wardrobe anyway?”

“I don’t - with you it’s all strictly professional so could we please get to the intel here?”

And she turns around, focus on the table, her hair covers her face and hell,  he should leave her to it but those one-on-ones were rare recently, and deep down he knows he rather stays around with her than go to any party. Discuss theories and facts (in his view, she tends to mess up those…), enjoy her eagerness and her talking and gesturing all to himself and teasing her about it… he never gets tired of that. More fun than any big party where things like chicken-dance or karaoke are impending. So-

“Sure, Carrie, who needs to stay in Virgil’s good books if he’s pissing off to the pole anyway.”

 

They finish at nine.

When Quinn gets out of the shower and unwraps his paper-wrapped parcel, his mouth drops. Someone must have mixed up the orders. Fuck online-shopping.

 

Carrie, dressed in a cornflower-blue sheathdress, hair and make-up done, is surprised he is not already waiting for her, tapping his foot in his annoying way. She doesn’t knock when she enters his office and doesn’t flinch he is still half-naked. Upper half.

“Jesus Quinn, hurry up, Virgil will kill us.”

Quinn has an awkward expression on his face.

“Quinn, you’re ok?”

“Yeah, sure, just - have to - check something. Go ahead, Carrie, I’ll see you there.”

“You are not dodging, are you?”

Shit, that’s what he had in mind. No way he can go to the party with -

“Promise you won’t dodge.”

He rolls his eyes but nods.

 

As soon as Carrie is gone, he starts his raid. He needs a shirt. Something clean and decent, not too flashy. A lot of colleagues have spare shirts on hangers for unexpected meetings - or at least he thought so.

He comes up with two lumberjack shirts, smell of campfire included, a nice normal white shirt with a huge coffee spot on it (actually that might be his own, how come it ended up with Wendy from controlling?), two which seem to belong to midgets, fat midgets that is, and another one so torn it immediately invokes an image of wild office sex, he might see into that some other time.

He curses his luck. Takes another look at his parcel. First and last trial at online shopping for clothing ever. Shit, why didn’t he pick up his laundry on the way to the office!  
He takes out the shirt. The size looks alright. About the only alright however. It’s flashy, it’s trendy, it is ridiculous. Greyish, silverish, no ANTHRAZITE with pink roses. PINK. ROSES. He will look like a geek turned dandy. Like a colorblind. Cross out color. Like a eisoptrophobic, the guys who are afraid of their image in the mirror. Well, if he wears _this_ , he better be afraid of any mirror! Like a guy from the eighties going wild over the B52s… Like an actor with a dorky streak…. He will go down in Langley history… the curse of the smart phone age.

_See it as an exercise in willpower. I don't give a shit about anybody's opinion. Are we clear on that?!_

 

At the party, he doesn’t make it past the hall because a group of Swedish girls (the bridesmaids, he’ll soon get to know) lay eyes on him and go wild. They shriek, they start clutching his shirt, a bottle of Tequila appears, then another, the girls talk rapidly in Swedish which is none of his languages but after five shots he thinks it is. He starts enjoying himself. Good thing is: This entourage keeps him from running into any Langley people. Then, all of a sudden, as if a fairy godmother had a hand in this, they leave to round up the bride and sing for her.

And that is when his eyes meet Carrie. Carrie, so tasteful in her blue sheathdress, a glass of white wine in hand, staring at him in utter disbelief.  
Fuck.  
Hell, she comes over.

“Quinn - what on earth is that?!”

Accusingly she points to the shirt. He shrugs. “They call it fashion, Carrie.”

She shakes her head, too stunned to speak. “No, they call it shirt of horror. Quinn, what happened to your blue button-downs?”

“So you _do_ care for my wardrobe?”

“No I care for my eyesight, and this, dearest colleague, is a health danger. All these innocent party people might get eye cancer.”

Quinn is in too good and tipsy a mood to ponder, damage is done anyway, so he just grins. Carrie, not too sober herself, starts giggling.

“Jesus, Quinn… What kinds of drug did they give you to make you put it on? Oh my god oh my god - did they take your ER nurse hostage? It’s a clear violation of the Hague convention…”

Quinn smiles, one of his rare spectacular smiles. “Make me an offer and I might take it off.” Shit, he might have had too much of that Tequila.

She eyes him and smiles back. Oh her beautiful beautiful smile… oh that tequila…

“…Feel free to come along and check if I sleep in my shirt…”

“Quinn… you are getting out of bounds.” _Nah I am getting out of control._

The atmosphere is clearly charged. He looks into her wide and shiny eyes, bites his lips. Steps up close.  Smells her perfume - couldn’t smell it back at the office. “So”, he goes, “- what's your offer?”

She holds his gaze, still amused, slightly puzzled. Shakes her head in disbelief. Eyes him up and down.

“Quinn Quinn Quinn. I must say….”

“What? You afraid the Swedish girls will eat me alive?”

Merry laughter.

“Quinn, why don’t you get us a drink?”

“Yeah. Later. Right now I am still waiting for that offer.”

She draws her breath in, gives him another up and down, thinking about the right move to keep the upper hand.

“OK: We play poker. Strip-poker.”

“What?”

“We have a game of strip poker, and if you lose, you take off this horrible shirt.”

“You sure about that? It’s you who’ll lose.”

“So who is so full of himself tonight… Did this shirt give you any superpowers?”

_Nah Carrie but I can read your face. Always. All your emotions on display. I have seen them all, remember… Desperation, rage, insecurity, eagerness, need, anger lots of times, desire, abandonement, stubbornness, that the most regular I’d say -, joy  -_

He is not that drunk to say it aloud, he just shakes his head again and grins. _Suit yourself gorgeous_.

 

30 minutes into the game they sit in the cloakroom, cross-legged, the cards before them, the door closed. Quinn, still fully dressed, eyes Carrie who has left on her two pieces of  clothing: Bra (white, lace) and g-string (white, lace). _Nice lingerie_ , _she must get cold._

He offers: “Should we quit?”

“No way. Not until I’ll make you take off that horrible shirt!”

Quinn sighs and hands out another deck. His first card: Ace of hearts. Second card: King of hearts. Third card: Queen of hearts. It’s his lucky night obviously.  
Carrie’s burrowed brows tell a different story…  
He takes in her slight waist, her tempting curves, her delicate skin. Her tongue touches her lip in concentration. He would like to jump at her rightaway and touch all those beautiful things he can see. And those few he can’t. Let his lips do all the exploring and his hands and-  
She shivers. She has goosebumples on her arms.  
Thing is, Monday morning it will all be back to normal. Button-down Quinn and Have-my-back-Carrie.  
He’d rather not have her have a cold and therefore stay at home. He would miss the sight of her. So he throws in his cards and lies:  “This sucks. I am done. I give up.”

Carrie knows immediately it’s an act and considers making him pay for it with something like “fuck you Quinn, a true gentleman would have done it 20 minutes ago, look, my lips are already blue”. But she doesn’t. This silly shirt has brought something out in him she hadn’t noticed before. Or well, more likely the tequila. He is - cute, his demeanour so endearing - well not endearing, more like… fuck, he’s hot. He really is. She gives him another once-over - god, that shirt _is_ a disgrace, but the rest…

“So, Quinn, finally ready to take it off?”

“Sure.” He gets up and implies a bow. “Whatever you want Carrie.”

As he starts to unbutton, Carrie gets up too.  The air is on fire, they throw knowing little smiles at each other, look away, catch their eyes again. Carrie mumbles a “Let me help you,  high time for this”, until Quinn is done, the shirt's on the floor. “Much better, Quinn”, she says, putting her hand on his broad smooth chest ever so lightly, and Quinn feeling all dizzy and just about to pull her up and touch her and taste her and -

the door jumps open and the bridesmaids rush in doing a funky chicken dance, shouting and laughing and dragging Quinn along and Carrie too who stare at each other in utter disbelief. In a desperate move not to be exposed in underwear to half of the Agency, Carrie draps herself in the shirt of horror.

It suits her.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked the fic? Wanna discuss it and/or find out more about the writer? ->  
> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11871.html#comments


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